Of Roses and Angels
by RedFluffyBanana
Summary: The sheltered existence of a Little Sister. The world of Rapture, through their eyes, is one of majesty and comfort. In reality, it is something much darker. One-shot.


**A/N: Finally got round to completing Bioshock 2 last week, so to celebrate I wrote this. Any problems/ questions feel free to PM or review :)**

**I might actually write a multi-chapter piece around this, (if I ever get round to it) or simply re-write to make it longer. **

**Some creative liberty taken.**

Of Roses and Angels ; The sheltered existence of a Little Sister

Roses. Their cloying scent lingers in the air and hides in the folds of fabric which line the stairs, the walls. Their petals scatter on the marble floor, and float down from the ceiling like snow. Bundles of coloured bricks, toppled towers, half-formed pyramids, are left abandoned. The distant sound of laughter drifts in from around the next corner. A princess, her silver tiara resting upon her brow, emerges from a crowd of party guests, and glides towards her, giving her a teddy bear as she passes.

The comforting presence, ever-present, watches over her, always at her back ….a friend. She turns her head, and looks up, her arms enclosed around the teddy bear as his arms embrace her. His eyes glow like hers do, and she feels comfortable and safe. The blemished and tarnished metal as soft as silk or velvet to her fingers, the featureless face a beaming smile reserved for her alone. "Daddy," she intones, before giggling. Her protector, her golden knight…..

But sometimes she wonders why she would need someone so big and strong in a world so safe and friendly…..?

Chandeliers hang overhead, burdened with crystals, and laced with gold. The soft glow of candlelight illuminates her petal path, and she skips on light feet to her prize. The marble is warm to the touch.

Her prize, the prone figures-whose arms are crossed across their chest- are angels…angels with gleaming halos and glistening wings. Their skin is that of alabaster, unblemished. Their faces are serene, for they are sleeping. (You have to be quiet, very quiet as you kneel down beside them, you can't make a sound- it's a game, a game, a game- she whispers under her breath).

She pushes the syringe into the nearest angel, suddenly overcome by a gnawing hunger, and places the bottle to her lips. The guests watch with barely audible murmurings, enchanted by her actions. They nod their heads in approval and smile before returning to their conversation. This is the world that she lives in, with its delicate lullabies, soft downy cushions, and scrawled drawings made in crayon. Then, in an instant, everything changes.

The crimson petals scattered on the marble floor hide a dark secret. The angel's faces are gnarled, grotesque and splattered in gore. Limbs twisted at odd angles. Clothes ripped, skin torn. An angel, if of anything, of death.

And sometimes she sees the scarlet liquid, pooling and staining the grimed floor; (peppered on her hands, her face, her clothes….) the insanity etched in the creases of the splicer's faces, feels the metallic grating underneath her bare feet, the cold damp bruising the air, hears the sounds of pain, the _screaming_ as it ricochets around the walls. The princess, once the picture of regal majesty (something magical), has become a monster- shrieking, frantic ….feral.

The behemoth behind her, hulking in her wake, still her protector and yet, _frightening_ as he fights a hoard of who- mere moments ago- had been champagne wielding guests dressed in tuxedos and ball gowns. Now they are uncontrolled, relentless, (are they after her? Do they want to hurt her?) Even as their bones are shattered, their bodies thrown into walls and crushed, they continue on, unencumbered by their fatal wounds. Pockets of light flare, shout, explode as bullets burst and rain down upon her knight's metal armour. He stumbles, she cries out. Reaches a hand out to help him, but he holds her back. His vision turns red- its beam catches the dust motes as they spin idly in front of his gaze.

Her eyes dart to the angel by her feet, and tears well and spill down her cheeks. The syringe now a nightmarish device, clutched in her dirty, blood splattered hand.

Her eyes catch a glimpse of something that doesn't belong in this world and for an instant the image fractures, and then shatters as the pieces fall into place around her. But then she smells the roses, sees the chandeliers, the piles of forgotten bricks, the strangers (with their friendly smiles…daddy's friends?), the angels and the dystopia is forgotten. The utopian haze settles upon her vision, and the reality is forgotten.

But sometimes, just sometimes -even if it's for a split second- she knows that she isn't in a world of roses and angels.

(But surely, this is because she wants to believe, for reality, _recognition_ would be too painful, too horrible to imagine.)

(But this is the world in which she lives….this is the world of Rapture).


End file.
